


The Spaces Where the Sun Can't Touch

by Anonymous



Series: A Particular Breed of Despicable [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Ephebophilia, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, FE3H Kinkmeme, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pre-Canon, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Coercion, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25539121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Let me tell you a secret, Sylvain. I am a man accustomed to getting the things I want. If you are so adamant in denying me, you had best be prepared to make it up to me.” He steps further into Sylvain’s space, so close Sylvain can practically feel the heat of him as he looms over the boy. A soft hand grips his chin, turning him up to meet his eyes. “Is he worth that much to you?”Dimitri, who is so sweet and earnest and pure. Dimitri, who Sylvain loves more than his own family. Dimitri, who Sylvain would do anything for…But Sylvain? Sylvain’s far from pure. “Yes.”_____Fill for FE3H Kink Meme
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Rufus Blaiddyd
Series: A Particular Breed of Despicable [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858366
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57
Collections: Anonymous





	The Spaces Where the Sun Can't Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:
> 
> Rufus convinces Sylvain that if Sylvain fucks him and does it well enough, he won't touch Dimitri.
> 
> +Rufus talks dirty the whole time about how he'd fuck Dimitri if Sylvain weren't here and Sylvain's embarrassingly into it and also determined to protect Dimitri from it.
> 
> ++Sylvain has a purity complex about Dimitri being pure and innocent unlike Sylvain  
> _____
> 
> Fuck, this got way longer than I initially planned. Hope you like it, anon!

It is a rare gift that Sylvain gets to spend the summer in Fhirdiad with His Highness, Felix, and Glenn. Though, Glenn is often too busy with his duties as a knight to spend time with them anymore. Still, Sylvain relishes any chance he can get to be away from Miklan, and a whole summer feels like bliss. Castle Fhirdiad is a massive fortress, full of twist and turns and secret passages, and the boys spend hours laughing and playing through the halls, raising the ire of the maids and cooks. In the evenings, after dinner, His Majesty spares them a fraction of his valuable time, gathering them in his study and reading to them from his favorite books.

Dimitri’s smiles during their visit are like sunshine, bright and lively. Though he’s now into his teenage years, there’s a tender naivety about the boy that Sylvain can’t help find endearing. Sylvain is just like that; his friends are the thing most dear to his heart.

Also living in Castle Fhirdiad is Prince Rufus, brother to the king. He looks much like his younger brother and nephew, the same neat golden hair and well-groomed beard and striking blue eyes. He’s a tall, regal man, and he has never shied away from flaunting his status; Sylvain can’t remember ever seeing him with the same woman twice. In his free time, he is a common sight when the boys train, watching with mute interest and offering his critique. On occasion, he steps in to give a demonstration, stands close behind them to correct their grip with a laugh and a quip of, “don’t worry, boys, I know my way around a lance.”

A moon passes this way, and the king holds a gala in celebration for something Sylvain doesn’t quite care enough about to remember. The ball room is bedecked with elegant streamers and tables set with the finest table cloths and dinnerware. The cooks spend days preparing a grand feast and hors d’oeuvres. Excitement builds like a soap bubble, and the boys bustle around busy servants taking everything in.

The day of the gala arrives, and the boys dress in their finery. Elegant music swells and flows around as finely dressed aristocrats mingle. Duke and Duchess Fraldarius arrive early in the night, joining with Glenn and Felix who are dressed in dark blue suits with their hair tied neatly back with fine lengths of leather. Sylvain’s own parents arrive some time later; his father gives him a firm handshake and his mother a brisk hug and kiss on the cheek before heading off to mingle with people far more important than Sylvain. They left Miklan at home, which was fine by him.

And there is Dimitri, a resplendent little sun as he walks hand-in-hand with his father, who beams brightly down at him from time to time, or pauses to ruffle his soft golden hair. Sylvain glances at his own father, who’s never been so warm or kind or affectionate. He pushes the thoughts away and tries to enjoy the party.

Sylvain finds himself alone, after a time, popping small berry tarts into his mouth. He supposes he will give it another hour or so before he throws himself at the hordes of noblemen’s daughters and attempts to smooth talk one of them into his arms for the night. Dimitri is still with his father, and Felix stands close by Glenn’s side as he makes small talk along with his parents to some lords of minor houses Sylvain doesn’t remember the names of. They won’t miss his presence and they certainly won’t think his absence strange.

A glass of champagne appears in front of him, and Sylvain takes with without thinking. Though Sylvain is only fifteen, his parents pay him little enough attention that they won’t notice if he indulges a little. The bubbles tickle as he takes a sip, scrunching his nose a little at the taste.

Rufus, dressed in a fine white suit trimmed in gold, steps around Sylvain, a small smirk playing on his lips and a flute of champagne in his own hand. The man’s eyes rake over the crowd around them like a cat seeking out a mouse. “Thank you, Your Highness,” Sylvain offers politely.

“Think nothing of it, Sylvain. You looked quite lonesome.” Sylvain shrugs, taking another small sip of his drink. A warm, heavy hand falls over his shoulder, guiding him gently toward the edge of the crowd. They amble over to the balcony, stepping into the cool night air. Very few people have made their way out there. The view of the palace grounds is beautiful under the twilit sky.

Rufus leans on the railing, sipping thoughtfully on his drink as he stares back in through the window. Sylvain shifts uncomfortably. He’s barely spoken to the man in more than just passing, outside of his visits to the training hall, and he’s fairly certain he’s never been alone with him. He’s simply never had cause to be. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he finally says after a long hesitation, “did you have something you needed to talk to me about?”

“Not particularly,” he admits, not tearing his gaze away from the spot it has locked onto inside. Sylvain follows his line of sight, eyes landing on King Lambert and Dimitri. “My nephew certainly draws a crowd, doesn’t he?” Inside, Dimitri was talking animatedly at his father’s side, eliciting smiles and laughs from the people gathered to get a scrap of the king’s time and favor.

Sylvain laughs uncertainly, unsure where the man was going with this. He cranes his neck slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of the man’s face in the dim light. His eyes are unwavering as he stares at Dimitri, his normal sly smirk replaced with something darker. Sylvain recognizes the look; it’s the look Miklan wears when he stares at a pretty maid as she bends over to pull a freshly cleaned linen sheet out of a laundry basket to hang it to dry, trying to see down her dress; it’s the look he wears when he follows the maid through the halls a few days later before pulling her into an empty room and locking the door.

Sylvain’s stomach twists into knots. “There are a lot of beautiful women here, wouldn’t you say, Your Highness?” Sylvain manages, his attempt at a light, jovial tone falling flat. Rufus spares him a glance, arching a blond eyebrow. “I’m surprised you haven’t found someone to warm your bed yet.”

“Who says I haven’t?” His eyes fall back on Dimitri.

Dimitri, who is sunlight incarnate. Dimitri, who smiles freely and cries easily. Dimitri, who would do anything asked of him without question because he’s so eager to please.

Sylvain stares up at Rufus, feeling like a small child, but there’s nothing he won’t do for his friends. “Not him,” he says, voice smaller than he intends it. “Please, you can’t.”

Rufus fixes him with an icy stare, taking a long, contemplative swig of his champagne. “What are you insinuating, Sylvain?” he wonders, sounding almost bored. Sylvain swallows hard, taking a reflexive half-step back. “Are you implying I would do something untoward to my own nephew? Those are very serious allegations, you know.”

“I’m not stupid,” Sylvain hisses. “I saw the way you were looking at him.”

“The way I was looking at him?” the man echoes, the corners of his lips tugging up. “That proves nothing.” He leans in very close to Sylvain, crowds into his space until the boy can feel his breath hot on the shell of his ear. “Do you truly think anyone would believe you, when that is all the evidence you have? Do you think my brother would take the word of a child over that of his own brother?” The boy shivers, and it not from the chill in the air.

“Please,” he repeats, voice barely over a cracked whisper. “Not him. Anyone but him.”

“Anyone?” he muses, cocking his head to the side. “Would you condemn another to shield him? What about the Fraldarius boy? He’s so small and delicate, almost like a girl. I bet he would make the sweetest sounds.”

Sylvain wants to retch. “You’re sick.”

“So, not _anyone_ , I take it,” Rufus laughs. “Let me tell you a secret, Sylvain. I am a man accustomed to getting the things I want. If you are so adamant in denying me, you had best be prepared to make it up to me.” He steps further into Sylvain’s space, so close Sylvain can practically feel the heat of him as he looms over the boy. A soft hand grips his chin, turning him up to meet his eyes. “Is he worth that much to you?”

Dimitri, who is so sweet and earnest and pure. Dimitri, who Sylvain loves more than his own family. Dimitri, who Sylvain would do anything for…

But Sylvain? Sylvain’s far from pure. “Yes.”

The smile on his face is almost tender, but his eyes are like those of a wolf ready to devour a plump, helpless hare. “You would take his place in my bed tonight?” Sylvain swallows hard. He is fifteen, hardly a child, and certainly no longer innocent. Miklan had made crude jokes in the past with his gang of vulgar, unruly friends about men laying with each other, though Sylvain had never quite worked out the specifics of it. Still, he nods, resolute. “Then I will make you a deal. If you satisfy me, I swear that I will not lay a hand on dear, sweet Dimitri. Fail that, however, and I have no qualms kicking you out of my bed and seeking out a more agreeable partner. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

None of it sounds agreeable to Sylvain. The thought of it turns his stomach, but Sylvain can think of no other solution. Who is he to speak out against the prince, the king’s dear brother? He would be called an attention-seeker or an over-imaginative child, or he would be accused of trying to slander Rufus’ good name. He would pay any price for His Highness. Even his own body, it seems. “Alright.”

“Then let’s seal our deal with a kiss.” Sylvain attempts to glance back at the party, worried that someone would see, but Rufus’ grip on his chin holds him tight in place. He may not have the unnatural strength granted by the Crest of Blaiddyd, but he is still a large, full-grown man. “No one is paying us any mind.” Sylvain closes his eyes, and soft, warm lips press against his. It is almost chaste, but there’s a dark hunger there. Before pulling away, he nips sharply at Sylvain’s lower lip, making the boy yelp softly in surprise. “I expect you in my chamber in an hour’s time.”

Rufus steps away, then, upending his champagne and sparing Sylvain a final, appraising look that makes Sylvain shiver before heading back into the party. Sylvain is too numb to follow, his hands trembling. Every nerve in his body is screaming at him to not go through with it. But how can he not? How can he leave Dimitri to that fate? Dimitri, Rufus’ own nephew. Thinking about it threatens to sour Sylvain’s stomach.

Sylvain isn’t sure how much time passes, though he is sure it is considerable. Scanning the crowd inside, he can no longer see Rufus, assuming he’s retired to his chamber already. He leaves his glass on the balcony rail and shuffles back inside, feet so heavy it feels at though his shoes have been replaced by bricks. His heart pounds furiously, the weight of knowing what he’s walking into closing around his chest like a vice.

He is near the edge of the hall when a familiar voice cuts over the din of the party. “Sylvain,” Dimitri calls, upbeat and unburdened, “where are you going?”

Sylvain turns slowly as the young prince stops behind him, his hand clasped tight around Felix’s. And Dimitri smiles at him, warm as summer. Sylvain swallows down a lump in his throat, unsure how to answer that question. Obviously, not with the truth.

Felix’s brow furrows as he looks up at Sylvain. “Are you alright?” he wonders with a small tremble in his voice, always the first to notice when something was wrong with his friends. _I bet he would make the sweetest sounds_. The weight on his chest tightens. “You look pale, Sylvain.”

Sylvain tries for a reassuring smile. “I don’t think the berry tarts agreed with me,” he forces with a small laugh.

Dimitri stares up with concern shining in his big blue eyes. “Would you like me to send for the nurse?” That was the last thing Sylvain wants, someone who would discover his room empty when it is not supposed to be, and wonder where he’s gone.

“Nah, I’ll be alright,” he dismisses. “I think I just need to lay down for a while.”

“If you’re sure…”

Sylvain ruffles the prince’s hair lightly, like he always does. “I’m sure. I’ll be alright in the morning, Your Highness. The two of you will have to tell me everything I missed.”

“Okay!” they agree in tandem.

They each give him gentle hugs, careful of his ‘upset’ stomach, tell him to feel better, and bid him a good night. He watches them skip hand-in-hand back through the guests. That’s why he’s doing this, he reminds himself. For His Highness. 

Sylvain has never had much reason to venture to Prince Rufus’ suite, though he knows the way. The halls are dimly lit and silent, only the sound of his footsteps ringing out like the beat of his heart. The few guards and maids he passes pay him no mind, used to seeing the red-haired boy wandering around.

There are no guards positioned outside Rufus’ chambers, no maids scurrying about. Sylvain takes a steadying breath in front of the imposing wooden door, and knocks three times with a trembling hand. “Enter.” Fighting the urge to run the opposite direction, Sylvain pushes into the room, entering an elegantly furnished sitting room. “Lock the door behind you.”

Rufus doesn’t look up as Sylvain walks slowly toward him, the man’s attention focused on a worn leather-bound book in the candlelight. He’s shed his white suit. Instead, a silvery silk robe with blue embroidery is draped over his shoulders, tied loosely around his waist. He lounges on a chaise, occasionally taking a sip from a glass of red wine. Sylvain studies his face; he's relaxed and holding no more of the predatory leer he’d seen before, like Rufus wasn’t a lech who desired his own nephew.

Sylvain waits anxiously, clenching and unclenching his fists, his mouth feeling parched. It is a long moment before Rufus shuts his book with a loud snap that makes Sylvain start, setting it carelessly on the end table at his elbow. He still doesn’t look at Sylvain as he pours a second glass of wine, offering it over to the boy. Sylvain doesn’t move.

“I haven’t drugged it, if that’s what worries you,” he laughs, voice low and smooth. “I thought it may help you relax.” Slowly, Sylvain takes it. It is sweet, expensive wine, almost the color of blood in the low light, and it's thick on his tongue. Rufus finally looks up at Sylvain, appraising him with calculating blue eyes. “I’m not going to jump on you, Sylvain. Come, sit. Get comfortable.” He moves his legs to the side, patting the seat near his hip as invitation.

Sylvain isn’t sure he wouldn’t prefer to simply be jumped and get it over with, but he sits regardless, back stiff as a board, trying his hardest to touch as little of Rufus as possible. The wine in his glass betrays the shaking of his hand, and Rufus laughs softly, sitting upright and reaching up to smooth down a lock of Sylvain’s artfully disheveled hair.

“Drink,” he instructs, his fingers tracing lightly over Sylvain’s back and shoulders. “Relax. Believe it or not, I’m not some beast concerned with only my own pleasure. I don’t want to hurt you, Sylvain. If you don’t relax, it won’t feel good.”

Sylvain takes another swig of wine, mechanical, feeling gentle warmth spread in his belly. He closes his eyes, pretends the hands rubbing soothing circles into his back belong to just about anyone else. The wine glass disappears from his hand and Rufus reaches around to unbutton his tailcoat, slowly easing it off his shoulders and draping it over the edge of the chaise. His cravat follows soon after, and the wine glass is pressed back into his grasp, refilled.

The hands start roaming his arms and chest, squeezing at the lean muscle there from when Sylvain deigns to train, making small hums of approval as he goes. Sylvain gasps as deft fingers trace over his nipples, the glass nearly slipping from his grip, and Rufus chuckles. “Are you sensitive here, Sylvain?” he muses, giving one of them a soft squeeze that makes Sylvain’s manhood twitch in interest. He bites his lip, holding back the pathetic whine that threatens to slip free. “I asked you a question, Sylvain. How are you to satisfy me if you can’t answer a simple question? I’m sure Dimitri would have no trouble…”

Panic blooms in Sylvain’s chest. He can’t let it come to that. “Y-yes,” he manages to mutter.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I… I’m sensitive th-there.” Rufus hums again, pleased, and rolls both of Sylvain’s nipples between his fingers. Sylvain groans, eyes slipping closed once again, leaning heavily against the man’s chest without meaning to. His pants are growing tight against his will.

“Good boy,” Rufus coos into his ear. “Let yourself enjoy it, it’s alright.” Sylvain whines as the fingers retreat. “Finish your wine.” Sylvain drains it in two long gulps, and the glass is set to side. The alcohol is doing it’s job; Sylvain can feel the tension in his muscles ease, leaning warm and heavy and pliant against Rufus. He’s not drunk, but the slight cloud of intoxication helps.

Rufus tugs lightly on Sylvain’s chin, turning him back to face the man. His blue eyes have returned to the wolfish hunger when he swoops down to roughly reclaim Sylvain’s lips, urging them apart and dipping a forceful tongue in the boy’s mouth. Sylvain can taste the wine lingering on the man’s lips. Strong hands wind through Sylvain’s hair, keeping him locked in place.

Time crawls, thick like syrup as Sylvain lets himself be kissed hard and deep. He’s unsure how much time passes when Rufus finally breaks away, lips shiny from saliva. He runs a gentle finger down Sylvain’s cheek, like a lover, and it sends chills down Sylvain’s spine. Before Sylvain can protest, he leans back, dragging Sylvain with him, nestling the boy between his spread legs and cradling him against his chest. Sylvain can feel his half-hard length pressing against his lower back as he squirms in the man’s grasp, and Goddess, even half-hard it feels so much bigger than Sylvain.

“Sit still,” Rufus warns. Delicate fingers start picking the buttons of Sylvain’s shirt open, exposing his chest to the night air. “I would almost believe you don’t want to be here at all. And, if that’s the case, I’m sure Dimitri would enjoy my company.”

“Please,” Sylvain mutters, falling still. “Please, you promised.”

“On the condition that you satisfy me.”

“I will. I promise I will.”

“Good.” Rufus pulls Sylvain’s shirt away, tossing it to the floor without care. His fingers pluck at the boy’s nipples again, and Sylvain does his best to please Rufus, no longer trying to hold back the small, breathy noises that the man draws from him. His fingers ghost lower, tracing over the bulge in Sylvain’s pants. “So worked up, just from this,” he muses. Sylvain bucks into the touch, only for Rufus to hold his hips in place with a firm hand. “Does it feel good?”

“Yes.” His answer is rewarded with more pressure, Rufus gently palming him through the fabric that is quickly growing wet as Sylvain’s head leaks.

“Do you touch yourself, Sylvain?” he wonders, removing his hand to untie the laces of Sylvain’s pants.

“Yeah.”

Rufus tugs the waist band of Sylvain’s pants and smalls down, freeing Sylvain’s flushed and leaking length. “Show me.” Sylvain smears the palm of his hand over the head, collecting the small, clear beads of precum, and wraps his hand around himself. He pumps slowly, acutely aware of the way Rufus’ hips grind against him in time with his strokes. The man’s hands return to toy with Sylvain’s nipples, and the sensation is almost too much. “It’s okay to let go, Sylvain.”

With a groan, Sylvain spends, splattering his chest with white. He pants, head lolling back on Rufus’ chest. A handkerchief runs gently over the mess he’s made of himself.

“Stand up and finish undressing,” Rufus instructs once Sylvain is clean, nudging the boy away. Reluctantly, Sylvain does as he is bidden, letting his trousers and smalls pool around his ankles and stepping out of them. He’s hit with the sudden urge to cover himself, to hide from the eyes that drink him in. A hand caresses over the swell of his ass, kneads into the plump flesh there, and Sylvain hisses at the sting of a sharp slap.

Rufus stands, his erection straining against the robe still tied around him, and guides Sylvain away from the chaise with a hand on the small of his back. They go through a door in the back of the sitting room, into the man’s bed chamber. A large bed in a finely crafted antique oak frame sits against the center of the back wall, fit with beautiful blue sheets. Pale moonlight spilled in through a grand open window. Faintly, Sylvain can still hear the sweet lull of music from the ballroom carried on the breath of the soft wind.

Sylvain, busy taking in the décor of the room, yelps as a firm hand on his shoulder shoves him to his knees, and he lands hard on the carpeted floor. He looks up at Rufus, indignant and confused, in time to see the man working at untying his robe. It spills off his shoulders, flowing like water to the floor and gathering at his feet in a pool that gleams in the moonlight. A hand lazily strokes his manhood, bringing it to full hardness. It is nearly twice the size of Sylvain’s own, thick and long where it stood against a bed of golden curls.

Sylvain feels himself flush at the sight of it. He’d been on the receiving end of this enough times to know what the man wanted. But how in Sothis’ name is Sylvain meant to fit the damn thing in his mouth? Rufus stops stroking, brings a hand to card through Sylvain’s hair. “Well?” he prompts, arching an eyebrow expectantly. “What are you waiting for?”

Sylvain licks his lips anxiously, glancing between Rufus’ hungry eyes and the leaking head of his cock. “I-I don’t think I can... Y-you're too big.”

“How would you know if you haven’t even tried?” Can the guy not _see_ himself? Rufus sighs, his hand falling from Sylvain’s head. “If this is too much, you’re free to leave. I’d rather see Dimitri on his knees anyway.” He stoops to scoop up his robe.

“No,” Sylvain pleads, grabbing his wrist. “Please, no.”

Rufus pauses, eyeing Sylvain coldly as he grips the boy’s chin hard, painfully. “I believe I’ve made myself very clear, Sylvain. If you can’t satisfy me, I have no interest in you. You were so adamant about preserving my dear nephews innocence, I thought I might humor you. But, please, make no mistake: I would much prefer to fuck him tonight. So either get on with it and open your mouth or stop wasting my time.”

The tone of his voice chills Sylvain to the core and – embarrassingly – makes his spent cock twitch. After hesitating only a second more, Sylvain opens his mouth wide.

Rufus pushes the head of his cock past his lips. It rests heavy on his tongue, warm and thick. The hand returns to his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Mind your teeth.” Sylvain isn’t quite sure how to do that. Rufus’ length is hardly half way in when the head bumps the back of his mouth. His lips are stretched wide around him, jaw already starting to ache. “Don’t make me do all the work. Use your hand on what doesn’t fit in your mouth.”

Dutifully, Sylvain takes the remaining length in his hand, trying to recall what the girls he’s been with do. He pulls back to the tip, dragging his hand up along the shaft. His saliva slicks the way when he bobs back down, and Sylvain sets a consistent pace. Based on the soft grunts and sighs Rufus offers, he must be doing a decent job.

Sylvain fights through the ache in his jaw, focusing on the task at hand, when Rufus starts pushing on his head, forcing more of himself into Sylvain’s mouth. The head breaches his throat, and Sylvain gags. He flails desperately, unable to breathe, choking and drooling, but Rufus’s strong hand keeps him pinned. There are tears spilling down his cheeks by the time Rufus releases his grip.

Sylvain falls to his hands, dry heaving and trying to suck air back into his lungs. His face is a mess of slobber, tears, and snot. Rufus studies him in mute interest. “You didn’t puke,” he noted. “Good. But you’re a mess.”

A dozen insults burn on Sylvain’s tongue, but the mental image of sweet, innocent Dimitri crying and gagging on the man’s cock in his place keeps him from letting them loose. Rufus steps away from him for a moment, returning with a damp cloth from the wash basin in hand. He kneels next to Sylvain, tilting his chin up and wiping his face clean tenderly. “What do you say?” he asks when he’s finished, stroking small circles on Sylvain’s cheek with his thumb.

“Th-thank you,” Sylvain rasps. He is sure his cheeks match his hair by this point, his heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings, but he’s not sure it’s from fear anymore. Especially given the fact that he’s hard again already, without even being touched.

Fuck. Does he… kinda like this? Maybe in a different scenario, with a different partner…

“Go lay on the bed.”

Sylvain does as he’s asked, legs shaking a little as he stands. He crawls to the center of the bed, tries to let himself relax on the plush pillows. They smell warm and earthy over the fresh scent of the soap used to clean them. It smells like Rufus, and Sylvain knows the scent will cling to his hair when he finally manages to return to his own chamber after Rufus has had his fill of the boy.

He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he notices the bed sag under the weight of Rufus joining him. He lays by Sylvain’s side and the boy can feel the warmth radiating off of him. When Sylvain opens his eyes, he sees the man coating his fingers in oil from a small vial that glitters in the moonlight. A soft, floral aroma drifts off the oil. Rose, perhaps?

His stomach twists in knots as he realizes where those fingers are about to go, but the idea thrills him almost as much as it terrifies him. “Spread your legs.” Sylvain does, trying to hide the way they tremble. The slicked fingers dip between his thighs, ghosting over the sensitive skin and finally probing at his hole. Sylvain clenches on reflex as the digit circles his rim. “You need to relax,” Rufus reminds him, “or this is going to hurt.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Sylvain mutters, trying to steady his breathing, to let go of the tension in his muscles. He expects another threat about Dimitri, but instead, Rufus bows his head, capturing Sylvain lips once again. He doesn’t attempt to press his finger in, just rubs it gently against his hole. It feel… nice, Sylvain decides. Rufus starts kissing his way down Sylvain’s neck, sucking and nipping lightly, making Sylvain gasp and moan. He keeps teasing his way down until his lips wrap around a nipple, still sensitive from being played with before. Sylvain’s back arches as the man’s tongue swirls around the bud.

In the same instant, he pushes his finger in up to the first knuckle. The sensation is foreign and invasive in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. Rufus glances up at him from under his lashes, arching an eyebrow that says what his mouth is too busy to say: relax. Sylvain tries, focusing on the wet heat of the man’s mouth sucking on his nipple instead of the finger resting inside him.

After a moment, when the initial burn of his hole being stretched open fades, Sylvain feels himself relax around the digit, and Rufus slowly pushes it the rest of the way in. It’s still an odd feeling, perhaps not pleasurable, but bearable. He gives Sylvain a moment to adjust before he starts pumping in and out.

One finger becomes two, and they repeat the process of letting Sylvain adjust to the stretch, the man continuing to lavish attention onto his nipples. Then he crooks his fingers inside Sylvain, and the boy sees stars. “Ah~” he moans, high and whiny.

Rufus releases the nipple he is worrying with his teeth and smirks at Sylvain. “You didn’t know about that, did you?” he teases, striking the spot again. “It’s a spot only men have. Does it feel good?”

“Ye-yeah,” Sylvain breaths. “P… please, do it again.” And, Goddess, now he’s begging. Rufus obliges, stroking the spot relentlessly. Sylvain thrashes and moans, grinding his hips down against the fingers. He barely notices when Rufus adds the third finger, stretching and scissoring him open.

“I bet you could cum just from this, couldn’t you, Sylvain?”

“Unghh~” is all Sylvain can manage.

“Go on, then.” He fingers Sylvain fast and hard, sending waves of pleasure wracking through him until Sylvain spends again. Rufus’ fingers slip out, leaving Sylvain clenching around nothing, panting in the haze of his second orgasm. He feels like jelly, even as Rufus wipes him clean yet again.

He is mutely aware of the man slicking up his own thick erection with the rose-scented oil. He clambers over the boy, and Sylvain’s vision is filled with a broad, muscular chest covered in a fine dusting of golden hair. The boy is pliant as Rufus hefts his legs over his shoulders and lines himself up at his slick, swollen entrance.

Immediately, it is too much. Sylvain’s nerves are still alight from his second orgasm, and every touch against his flushed skin toes past the line of pleasurable. On top of that, his length is broader than his three fingers had been. Sylvain hisses as the head pushes inside, stretching him wider than before, filling him so full he feels ready to burst. Choked sobs claw from his chest as Rufus sinks in inch by inch, stretching and filling him until Sylvain is sure he can take no more, then filling him further. Just before it becomes almost unbearable, he bottoms out with a groan.

“You’re so tight,” the man coos, leaning forward to bracket Sylvain’s head with his hands, practically folding the boy in half in the process. From this angle, he’s so deep in Sylvain that he’s sure he can feel the head of his cock in his belly. “I wonder if Dimitri would be this tight…”

“Please,” Sylvain sobs, unsure what he’s asking for anymore. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Sylvain stares up at him, lips trembling. “You need to be more specific, Sylvain. What do you want?”

“Fuck me.” Because Sylvain is unable to deny anymore that he needs it. He is beyond caring that the man buried to the hilt inside him repulses Sylvain to his very core. He’s not even sure if he’s doing it to protect Dimitri anymore. With the heat deep inside him and the wolf-like eyes that stare him down like he’s a meal to be devoured, all Sylvain knows is that he needs to be fucked. “Please.”

Rufus obliges, pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in with a hard roll of his hips that makes Sylvain cry out. His fingers knot into the sheet, and all he knows is the almost too-much pleasure. He’s vaguely aware of Rufus muttering softly into his ear, things like _do you think Dimitri would cry if I were fucking him instead_ and _I bet his hole would suck me right in_.

And each thrust grazes the spot in Sylvain that had brought him over the edge before, and Sylvain’s spent cock hardens valiantly. When he cums yet again, a scant few drops of seed leaking out, it is almost the wrong side of painful. Above him, Rufus grunts as his hole clenches tight about the man. His hips stutter, and he buries himself in deep before spending. Warmth spreads in Sylvain’s belly.

The man pulls out a moment later, a dribble of spend leaking out after his softening cock, and Sylvain’s legs fall boneless back to the mattress. Rufus leaves him on the bed, fucked out and exhausted. He returns a moment later with another damp cloth, cleaning the spend from between Sylvain’s legs. Once Sylvain is clean, he gingerly lifts the boys head and presses a glass of cool water to his lips. Sylvain drinks greedily. Sylvain’s whole body feels like a pulse, aching and drained. He is vaguely aware that there is no way he’s getting back to his own room, as much as he would like to flee. Rufus seems to know this too, because he draw the blanket up over the naked boy and crawls under it himself, pulling the boy to his heated chest.

“Sleep here a while,” he tells Sylvain. “You're exhausted.”

“Did I satisfy you?” he mutters blearily, almost as an afterthought.

Rufus is quiet for a moment, as if he’s considering the question. “You were adequate.” Sylvain lets himself relax into the man’s arms. Dimitri is safe- “For now.”

Ice floods Sylvain’s veins. “What do you mean _for now_?” he dares to ask.

Rufus laughs, brushing a lock of hair from Sylvain’s sweaty brow. “You’ve done well enough for the evening. I have no need to seek out Dimitri tonight.”

“But you said…”

“Did you think a single night in my bed would protect him _indefinitely_?” By the tone of his voice, Sylvain got the impression he knew that was _exactly_ what the boy thought. Sylvain can feel the man's chest rumble with laughter. “Our deal was for tonight alone.”

“Please,” Sylvain sobs, “you can’t. Not Dimitri. Please.”

“You know what that will mean, don’t you?” the man purrs in his ear. This was his game from the beginning, Sylvain realizes. This was a forgone conclusion to the man. “I’ll make you another deal. If I can have you at my leisure for the remainder of your stay in Fhirdiad, and you continue to prove an adequate partner, you have my word that I will not lay a hand on Dimitri.”

“And after I leave?” Sylvain asks, now that he knows the kind of word games the man plays.

He laughs again, sheepish, as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner. “Fine, fine,” he agrees, “if you do well, I swear that I will never lay with Dimitri.”

There is no price Sylvain will not pay for Dimitri.

They seal their deal with a kiss.


End file.
